


Color Theory

by citrusmistrust



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anthology, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Worms, F/F, Original Character(s), Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), The Usher Foundation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrusmistrust/pseuds/citrusmistrust
Summary: Reagan Drexel is a receptionist with too much time on her hands. She volunteers for a research project transcribing statements for the Usher Foundation, and gets more than she bargained for.An original character-driven horror anthology with a metanarrative featuring lesbians, egregious music analogies, and misuse of photojournalism.
Kudos: 6





	1. UF1: CRAWL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reagan tries her hand at transcribing a statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings in the end notes!

_ Statement transcribed by Reagan Drexel [Usher Foundation Registered Volunteer #0104]. Original author Judy Hawthorne. Statement regarding an unusual injury; taken on site August 10th, 2005. _

_ Statement begins: _

My arm hurts. Here’s some details about that. 

Years ago I attempted an art degree, and for months I was painting whenever I had a spare moment, forgoing sleep and meals to meet deadlines. My wrist swelled up like a water balloon. My fingers began to tingle and burn even when I wasn’t painting. I became unable to feel temperature or the sensation of touch on the skin of my forearm. That pain is the closest comparison I can make to this injury. I was worried I would lose my fine motor control altogether, so I quit school. It felt awful, but it was the only choice I could make. But I don’t know what to do about this.

The pain isn’t unbearable; just an unpleasant new filter through which I experience the world. The circumstances surrounding the injury are weird, though. That’s the reason I’m here. 

It started about a week ago. I was closing at work after a slow shift, watching the clouds darken the sky through the shop windows. Every time a customer opened the door I could feel the humid air rolling in, clinging to the floor and heavy in the artificially cool cafe. You could almost taste it. 

I clocked out and locked up the cafe. The weather before the storm was beautiful- gusts of wind, incredible purple clouds. The humidity didn’t bother me. I assumed if I walked quickly, I could get to my apartment before things got bad, and enjoy the sound of pounding rain against the roof, curled up with a book. For all the exhaustion of my workday it sounded like a very pleasant evening.

My luck wasn’t that good. The rain started halfway through my walk. It was warm, even for summer, and I was soaked immediately. The rain rolled down my face and under my collar and soon it felt like I had stepped in the shower with my clothes on. My hightops filled with water. The sensation of wet shoes and socks made me want to fling them off into the road.

I tried to enjoy as much of the rain as I could, since there was no avoiding it anymore. There is a certain thrill to being out in pouring rain. The sky was so dark it felt like night, and I was the only person outside. A few cars passed as I soldiered on against the downpour. The sheets of water were unrelenting but still gentle, except when the wind kicked up and blew the drops into my eyes. I began to resent the fluorescent glow from the gas station windows, because the rain made me feel like the last person on earth and I wanted to enjoy the feeling. 

After a few blocks I was in my own neighborhood. Some of the houses in my area have fenced-in front lawns, and they were steadily filling with water. I stepped around the puddles as they formed before I realized it was an exercise in futility, and started sloshing  _ through  _ them. Whole sections of sidewalk had become submerged, so I just stomped onwards like a child in boots. In fact, the largest puddles were the easiest part of the trek as the drier parts of sidewalk filled with an unpleasant obstacle- hundreds of earthworms.

I know they only wriggle up from the dirt during storms so they don’t drown, but I have sometimes wished they would stay there and die just so I could avoid stepping on them. I knew I’d feel guilty for killing a worm like that, but worse than that would be the sensation of squishing it under my sole. It made me shudder to imagine. I began to closely examine any dry ground I walked over. As the sidewalk filled with worms and water I was hopping more often than stepping, and sometimes bent at the waist to get a closer look at them. Some of the worms were a silvery color rather than the standard old-meat greyish pink. They were almost iridescent in the low light. I was completely absorbed in my effort not to squish them and definitely looked very stupid.

I know I must have been stepping partially into the road, although it wasn’t a conscious decision. I remember the flash of panic as headlights came up behind me and a driver swerved abortedly. I had the absurd thought that I’d rather slam into the clean metal of the car than fall near the worms. My body made the choice for me, though, and I went down hard, tumbling over the concrete into the grass in an awkward pirouette. I popped up from the dirt like it burned me, although the only reason I managed to do so was the adrenaline, and collapsed onto the first worm-free ground I could point myself towards. 

The driver stopped the car. I limped towards him as he got out of the car to help. Part of me expected to be berated for meandering into the street. It didn’t seem like I was hurt, but the shock of the impact made my limbs feel shaky and light and I began to shiver. 

He turned out to be a local guy, someone I vaguely recognized from the neighborhood. He offered a ride and I gratefully accepted. It seemed like he wasn’t sure whether or not to apologize. I let him know he could have free coffee next time he was in my shop, but forgot to give its name because I was too flustered. We pulled up to my building in silence. I clumsily opened the door and shut it behind me quickly, mindful of the torrential downpour despite having already ruined his passenger seat with my wet clothes. Finally, my apartment was within reach. I bounded up the porch steps, retrieved my keys from my pocket with shaky hands, and let myself in.

The orange glow of my lights didn’t fill the space like it should have. Standing in my living room, the weight of exhaustion from my long shift was heavy and the soreness from my fall already worsening. I wanted to shower, even as I was dripping rainwater onto the carpet. My panic had been so blindingly bright that in the moment when I hit the ground. I hadn’t felt the impact as it happened, but now I couldn’t stop replaying the moment in my head. Had I crushed any worms under me where I hit the dirt? Were they on my clothes, my skin? I couldn’t stop imagining the feeling. It was visceral and disgusting.

I walked to the bathroom on autopilot, wondering how to get my shoes to dry. In the mirror I noticed a dark streak of mud across my forehead- maybe I had scratched my face with a muddy hand. The guy in the car hadn’t said anything, but my embarrassment deepened. I tried to relax and start a bath to calm myself down. I noticed my knees were red from the impact and I had a messy scrape on the inside of my elbow, but otherwise I was whole.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. I piled blankets over myself and put on some mindless TV. The nervous energy of the afternoon started to fade until I was comfortable again. Eventually I stopped shaking. The evening crept on. I had plenty of food in the fridge but nothing sounded good, and I fell asleep on the couch trying to decide what to eat.

When I woke up the next morning, it was like the fall had never happened. The sore muscles I expected were absent. Sunlight streamed in through my windows.

A few podcasts and cups of coffee later I was more awake, and it occurred to me to check on my scraped arm. The moment it crossed my mind I noticed the pain- or maybe it had been there before and I was just doing a good job of ignoring it. It was a quiet, unobtrusive ache, but it felt wrong for being there at all. It was the only pain I still felt from the day before.

I rolled up my sleeve and was immediately concerned. The arm had swollen, and the skin around the wound was soft and tender. I stared at it for a long time, confused and unnerved. Yesterday it had been shallow and stung only when I submerged it in the bath. Now it throbbed in time with my heartbeat. It looked infected. But, not having health insurance, I decided the safest and most financially sound idea was to do nothing and just hope it didn’t kill me. I slapped a band-aid over the broken skin and tried to forget about it.

In the next few days, work was busy and the weather was hot. My last shift- was it yesterday? I’m not sure anymore- was particularly bad. On my break, I called my brother. I had a lingering sense that something was wrong, and just wanted to hear a friendly voice. It was nice. We talked about video games and his new puppy. I think that was the last time I really felt like I was still myself.

Customers ordered so many cold drinks that day we almost ran out of ice, and when I was finally able to clock out I was bone-tired. Outside it was too bright to see. I walked home in the dry heat, dizzy from exhaustion and closing my eyes whenever I thought I was walking in a line straight enough not to veer into traffic again. I must have looked drunk, but all I could think about was getting out of the sun. My clothes were too warm for August and I could only think about how much I missed the rain. It had been comforting even as it smothered me.

When I got home and unlocked my door, my injured arm bumped into the handle. I jumped, expecting more pain, but instead felt the handle press into my forearm like playdough. I gagged. Slamming the door behind me, I rolled up my sleeve to assess the damage. The band-aid peeled off before I could touch it. Something was very wrong.

It looked and felt like a rotting peach was stuffed under my skin. It was shiny and purple, and some places were pitted. My entire arm was a bruise. Where I had felt the door handle squish unnaturally into me, there was a deep impression in the shape of the handle. At the most swollen places I could see writhing movement under the skin. I was paralyzed. I felt more confusion than fear-I almost didn’t register that I should be afraid. My skin didn’t seem to have the same texture it used to. It definitely shouldn’t have been moving.

I thought about calling an ambulance. Maybe this was normal for infections, or maybe it was all in my head. Stupidly, I talked myself out of getting help. Sure, it was weird, but it didn’t feel like there was immediate danger. I didn’t even end up taking ibuprofen. Part of my brain had decided this wasn’t a problem. If I didn’t deal with it, it wouldn’t hurt me.

I ended up wandering around my apartment doing nothing for the rest of the day. Often I watched the injury, waiting for further changes. In those long minutes, uninterrupted even by blinking, I could see wriggling under my skin. I tried not to jostle it much, instead letting the limb hang uselessly at my side. 

Instead of watching TV or reading, I found myself staring at the walls. They were all the same faded white plaster, but there was variation in the color and texture that you could only see by looking closely. It was interesting, but in a distant way. Every thought I had felt like it was a step removed from my brain. My actions were on a delay. The air felt stagnant and too hot even with my air conditioner turned up. I fell asleep early, as soon as the sun set.

My dreams were just as strange. It felt like sleep paralysis, almost. Even in the dream, the fear made me feel like I was outside my own body. I was on the ceiling of my apartment, crawling upside down in the dark. I could hear a faint noise like static coming from outside my windows.

Worms poured out of my wound. They pushed out of the hole in my skin and cascaded down my forearm in a strange, silver waterfall. It seemed like there were hundreds of them surrounding me, more than should have fit under my skin. They flowed with a speed that didn’t seem possible, onto the ceiling around me and moving ever outwards in a circle. For some reason I thought it was bizarre they stuck to the ceiling with me. They should be falling, I thought. They aren’t sticky or anything, how are they up here with me? As soon as it crossed my mind, they detached from the ceiling and fell. It was like gravity hadn’t existed until I reminded them. I felt guilty for dropping them all like that, so I crawled down the wall and sat on the floor with them. I was careful, and didn’t crush any.

More worms arrived, coming in through the windows and under the door. There were so many of them that my carpet looked alive. They writhed around me, stacked deep like I was sitting in a puddle. I pitied them for being disgusting, and sympathized with them, and feared them. The room was so dark, and so busy with movement. I was feeling so much it was like I wasn’t feeling anything. The worms came up to my ankles as I sat against the wall with my knees pulled close to my chest. The static sound was getting closer, but the noises the worms made as they squirmed were just as loud. I realized the source of the sound- it was raining again. Suddenly I understood; they were just trying to escape the downpour.

I’m not sure when I woke up this morning, if this was something I even woke up from at all, but most of the worms were still there. It was sunny out again. I didn’t want them to dry up in the harsh light and the dry heat, so I let them stay. Honestly, I don’t think I mind having them around. I haven’t stepped on one yet either.

I called out from work, grabbed the keys to my car, and drove here to write this down. I don’t think my arm is going to get better, but putting it all on paper helped. I don’t know why you would believe me, but I don’t think I care, either. Maybe this will be useful to someone someday. The weather is turning again, so I’m going to leave. Thank you for taking my statement.

_ Hello all! I’ve attached the relevant corroborating documents I was able to track down. This one ends quite abruptly but I’m not sure where Ms. Hawthorne went after making her statement. Looks like she tendered her resignation to Court Street Coffee in the Baltimore suburb of Fulton on September 5th (just 2 days after making this statement!). I couldn’t find any records of her after that point. I actually called her brother too, but he didn’t want to comment. Pretty weird stuff!  _

_ In the interest of making this process smoother in the future I thought I’d give some feedback in the informal comments section :^) and sorry for any unprofessionalism but I’m quite excited to be volunteering for you!! I just wanted to point out that the guidelines have some inconsistencies/instructions that don’t really make sense to me and could be confusing to others- for instance, suggesting transcription volunteers limit their work to one statement a week doesn’t make a lot of sense. I know you have a hefty backlog and putting aside the emotional weight of some of these statements, they aren’t very time consuming to get through. It’s a straightforward process! I also see that whoever wrote these instructions called some statements “stubborn”? Which I guess is referencing how they don’t scan right. Not sure what that’s about, but I managed to find a solution for you! A typewriter works just fine for getting these in a more legible and reproducible state, and once they’re typed out on paper I haven’t had any trouble scanning and reuploading them. Dragging my typewriter into the offices was a hassle but it was worth it! Anyway, thanks again for approving me, I’m so excited to contribute to this project :)) _

_ Thanks again! -Reagan _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes it's 2020 yes I'm writing a fic with original characters. Love it live it. New installments Saturdays at 2:00ish EST.  
> Content warnings for this chapter are: body horror, worms, graphic description of an injury.


	2. UF2: OPEN ROAD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hitchhiking is dangerous. Reagan checks some receipts.

_ Statement transcribed by Reagan Drexel [Usher Foundation Registered Volunteer #0104]. Original author Ethan Nagel. Statement regarding an unexplained experience while hitchhiking in fall of 1997; taken on site December 8th, 2003. _

_ Statement begins: _

I know this isn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened to me while hitchhiking, but it was one of the scariest experiences I’ve ever had. This was years ago now but it’s something I haven’t been able to shake. So far, almost no one I’ve told about this experience has believed me. Many of my friends are either people I’ve done psychedelics with or folks who were closer with my ex than they were with me, and both groups are predisposed to think I’m spewing bullshit at all times. Not even my partner really believes me, although he’s never been unkind about it. It seems like my sister Diane is the only person on earth who still thinks I’m sane. I guess I’ll just get right down to it, then.

A few months before this incident, I came out, and broke up with my girlfriend at the time. She’s a lovely person but it got really ugly between us, and we both said things that don’t bear repeating. I was never really able to salvage the friendship. A lot of our mutual friends felt like I had been lying to her, and while maybe that’s true it feels completely unfair. The snow was just starting to melt and it was gray out most days. I was completely miserable. Even though I couldn’t have been happy staying with my girlfriend, I did miss her company. I missed her dog, I missed our home together, and I missed feeling like I knew where my life was going. I didn’t know what to do with myself. My sister suggested I come live with her in our hometown in Maine for a while. I agreed, and took a train up to see her with a suitcase full of books and clothes and not much else. 

I hung around for the better part of a month feeling sorry for myself. I did a lot of pacing. I think I must’ve worn a hole in her carpet. I remember waking up every day and staring across the room at her TV set, which was broken, and wondering why she didn’t get a new one. She nagged me every day to wake up and put clothes on before noon, and made me go outside on shopping trips with her. I was out drinking with some of our childhood friends when someone suggested I should travel to find myself and clear my mind. Writing that down now makes me cringe with embarrassment, but at the time it sounded like the perfect escape. I imagined traipsing across the continent, completely carefree, with only the clothes on my back. Nothing and no one to anchor me, I thought wistfully. No anger, no disappointment, only rolling hills and rest stops and a big blue sky. I booked a bus ticket the next day. I told Diane I’d call, and I set off on my big adventure.

It was a luxury to feel like a novel character, all on my own exploring the world and never leaving a trace of my presence. I felt invisible in the best sense. I took trains and buses and hitchhiked down the east coast, sleeping in cheap motels. My destinations were an even split between national parks and tourist traps. I wasn’t happy, exactly, but I felt better than I had in a while. I finally found some solace in my loneliness. No matter where I went, in big cities and small towns, I could disappear if I wanted to. After I hit Raleigh I switched directions, making my way across the flyover states. I could have done this for a long, long time- or at least until I ran out of money.

Travelling in the midwest, you notice everything is the same few colors. It’s a beautiful palette, so I never really got tired of it. The sky is orange and black at night, webbed over with the glow of streetlights in towns and the blinking lights of wind turbines in the country. It turns gold as the sun rises, then blue, and sometimes gray, and the clouds roll across in infinite new variations. The land is green and golden yellow, and the asphalt is grey with veins of black. The bright colors of rest stops and gas stations seem swallowed up by the landscape and the wide, endless road. Rinse and repeat.

I didn’t call my sister. Sometimes the thought crossed my mind, but I put it off. I wish I had made the time.

I don’t know what state I was in when this happened. It’s such an odd thing to forget, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it was Ohio, maybe Indiana. Maybe it was further west. Gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you. I got off a Greyhound in the middle of nowhere, and decided to hitchhike for the next leg of my journey. After breakfast at a local diner I found myself on the roadside, waiting for a ride. The weather was balmy and pleasant, and I didn’t mind standing on the shoulder. After a short while a car pulled up. 

The car was a clean gray BMW, a very new model- which maybe should’ve tipped me off that something wasn’t right. The driver rolled down the window and I was instantly starstruck. The man was handsome beyond belief, with broad shoulders and strikingly bright eyes. 

I stammered and said hello, and he smiled. It was a distant smile, like something a retail worker might offer a difficult customer, and yet still attractive enough to make me weak in the knees. I asked if he had room for one more.

“Of course,” he said. His voice was higher than I expected and accented; clearly he was English. I blushed. He motioned to indicate I should get in the car, and waited for me to set my bag down and buckle my seatbelt before pulling back onto the road. We merged onto the highway in silence.

Soon I began to feel strangely uncomfortable. Handsome or not, this man seemed odd in a way that I couldn’t pin down. It took a few seconds of conscious analyzing before I decided what made the atmosphere of the car so unnerving; there was no music playing. I fussed with my seatbelt a little and contemplated ways to start a conversation. The air conditioning was on too high and I was already cold. 

“So you’re not from around here,” I said. I started bouncing my leg up and down- a nervous habit I’ve never really shaken.

“No,” he answered, with that same tight smile. It was a look meant to placate, but also said ‘I know more than you’. This did not calm me down. Apparently sensing this, he continued. “I’m originally here on family business. I thought to see the sights while I’m here,” he nodded at the landscape, as if the midwestern sprawl of emptiness constituted a sightseeing destination. 

I asked what business, and he said “shipping.” There was a pause. We both stared out at the flat, empty road. For miles there were only soy fields and lonely trees.

Belatedly, I introduced myself. He told me his name was Arthur Lukas. Then he repeated my name back to me, saying “it’s nice to meet you, Ethan.” I felt myself turn redder and murmured a thanks. His deliberate acknowledgement made me feel like I was under a microscope. I turned to look back out the window.

Eventually I relaxed despite the circumstances. Arthur was weird, but I didn’t think he was threatening after all. His presence was like watching a storm roll over the stretch of farmland parallel to our route; the danger was visible but not imminent. I knew it wouldn’t reach me. The humming road noise was soothing. I listened to that hum for a long time, growing accustomed to the freezing air and the otherwise silent motion of the car. I felt safe. 

Then I made a terrible mistake- I fell asleep.

When I woke it was sudden, and I was unable to tell how much time had passed, so disoriented for a second I wasn’t sure if it was night or day. I raised my head, alarmed to see that I was by myself. The car was in park, the engine off but the keys left in the ignition. Immediately I began to panic. I threw the door open, tripping over my feet in my haste to get out. My ankle caught in a strap on my suitcase and I hit the ground facefirst, too consumed with my fear to notice any pain. I scrambled to my feet and looked around. The car was stopped on the shoulder of the divided highway. The landscape was indistinct. It could’ve been anywhere, and I was alone. The air was cold and still.

I dove back into the car and shut the door behind me, struggling to control my breathing. I was too lost to pick what to worry about first. Was Arthur in danger? Had he left me there on purpose? Why? If this was a kidnapping or a robbery, it obviously hadn’t succeeded, considering I had my belongings and a new BMW to myself. I thought maybe it was a bizarre prank. Even today that rings true; what happened to me was probably a sinister, cruel practical joke.

As the initial panic receded I decided to do some investigating. The glove box contained nothing, not even a registration or manual. There was a business card in the cupholder. Made of sturdy gray cardstock, it had  _ Solus  _ embossed on it in blue. The rest of the logo was obscured by a coffee stain and underneath that I could make out Arthur’s name. No job title or contact information listed. I put it in my pocket.

For a minute I sat in the passenger seat, leg bouncing, unsure of my next steps. So far I hadn’t seen any other traffic. There was no one to flag down for help. I pulled up my legs and sat cross-legged, staring out the windshield at my left. Fog hovered on the horizon with a far-off storm.

I waited. For what, I’m not sure. It didn’t feel like much time had passed. Or maybe it was hours, I don’t know. The road was empty. I was getting impatient but this car was removed from time, stopped like a bug on a glue trap. The clouds moved slower than they should have. I clambered over the console into the driver’s seat and leaned my forehead on the window. The glass was like ice.

The clock read 3:49. I started the car.

The air conditioning started going again and I fumbled to turn it off. The fans sputtered uselessly. It didn’t shut off completely, and cold air drifted out from the vents. I rolled my eyes, shifted into drive, and pulled back onto the highway.

I was a little worried about getting back up to speed with the traffic after being at a dead stop, but there were no other drivers. I shouldn’t have worried anyway, though, since the BMW had no trouble at all. I found myself actually enjoying the drive, marvelling at the engineering. I had never before driven a car that nice. Feeling daring, I pressed down on the accelerator and the car sped up. Seventy, eighty, ninety; it climbed without protest. The wind noise was quiet, still that low hum that had lulled me to sleep earlier. I hit one hundred and four miles per hour before I chickened out. I couldn’t forgive myself if I died by recklessly driving a stanger’s stolen car into a ditch. The sheer stupidity of the endeavor left me smiling and laughing anyway. 

I guess I figured I would take the next exit and call someone. Maybe I could just leave a note on the car and get out of town. I felt braver after the impulsive speeding, but my unease remained. I wanted to move on from this experience. 

The car approached the fog as I considered this. It was thick and menacing, and I had to turn on the headlights. I knew it would be impossible to see through, and I couldn’t tell how long I would be driving through it. Coasting down to thirty miles per hour ate up the distance between myself and the edge of the fog. I pressed onwards and instantly knew I had made the wrong choice; it was impossible to drive through. It pressed against the windshield, the color of a plastic milk gallon. Headlights did nothing; I could have been driving with my eyes closed. I barely touched the gas, terrified of even the slightest deviation and correction that would send me off course. The tiny sense that something was wrong bloomed again into genuine panic. 

I stopped the car. I only remember this in pieces, but I know I got out again. I stumbled for a few steps and immediately forgot where I was. Suddenly I was very dizzy. I fell to my knees and found that I could not stand up again, so powerful was the vertigo. I had to crawl, agonizingly, back to my vehicle. I only took a few steps away but I couldn’t seem to find it again. The gravel on the shoulder dug into my palms and stuck to my skin. I couldn’t see my own hands on the ground under me. I made it back into the driver’s seat, seatbelt on and car running, but I couldn’t tell you how. The fog encompassed everything. I could have been on a plane gliding through a stormcloud. But instead I was alone on this highway. The radio played static no matter what station I tuned it to. Desperately I leaned on the horn, hoping someone would come to my aid. The clock still said 3:49. 

I gunned it like I had before, but there was no excitement, only resignation. The car rocketed forward. I might’ve been closing my eyes. When I opened them, or when I emerged from the fog- I don’t know which it was- the weather was gray but there was no rain. I was situated perfectly in my lane going forty. Safe and reasonable. Behind me the weather front already looked far away. It was impressive, a huge bank of mist blanketing a section of highway. Relieved at my victory, I started looking for an exit. It took a few minutes to understand I had not made it to safety the way I’d hoped.

There were no landmarks- no turbines, no farmhouses, no signs for a nearby outlet mall. Just the same soy crops and single trees dotting the empty fields. The road was mostly a straight course, sometimes sloping gently to the right or left but always returning to its trajectory. Every once in a while I’d pass a sign for a town. They were the only thing breaking up the monotony of the landscape. Some made sense and some did not. There weren’t exits indicated on them, and there were no mile markers along the shoulder. I saw a sign for Bloomington-Normal and then Seattle. Was there a Seattle, Illinois? Was I in Illinois? Did it matter? Wherever I was, it was adjacent to reality.

I thought about making a u-turn, but the divided highway never had enough space to do so. I thought about driving out into the fields, banging on doors that must be just beyond the horizon. I did neither. The gas tank never emptied and the clock never changed. I started to miss that brief time in the fog. The dizzy confusion and lack of direction made me forget being afraid was painful. It’s hard to know you feel bad when you can’t tell what you’re feeling.

Driving for hours takes a toll on the body. The concentration alone is draining, watching miles of flat gray earth disappear under your tires. Your muscles start to stiffen up and your eyes get tired. It was like I was leaning on knives, no matter how I shifted. I was incredibly thirsty. When I tried to move a hand to rub my eyes, I found it was curled so tightly around the steering wheel it took real effort to let go. 

As I drove I began to feel a sense of loss. Looking out the windshield made me indescribably sad. The midwestern sprawl I had once found enticing and full of subtle variety had become a prison, and it exhausted me. The beautiful colors just looked like mud. Whenever I thought to do so I’d check the radio for signs of life. There was never anything. My world was reduced to static, pain, and the road. My eyelids were so heavy. All I wanted to do was go home, and all I knew how to do was keep driving.

The last big sign said Bozeman. It loomed on the horizon long before I could read the text. The fluorescent green grew closer and closer in my field of vision as the car sped up. By the time I understood I had made a decision I was already halfway through it, gas pedal pressed flat, fingers gripping the wheel painfully tight. I think I was crying.

The sound of the impact came before the sensation. The BMW crushed up against the signpost like a soda can. I could feel blood running down my chin and wanted to wipe it off before it dripped on my shirt. Then my vision went gray. I prayed to wake up near a living person, and if I couldn’t, then not to wake up at all.

I got my wish. The next time I was aware, a nurse was leaning over me, fixing something with my IV. At the hospital I learned I was concussed, dehydrated, and that I was, in fact, in Montana. For a day that felt like a week, I waited for the IV fluids to make me feel like a human again. Often I would crane my neck to check the door, waiting for cops to come book me for grand theft auto, but none ever came. Whenever anyone was in my room, I tried to make awkward conversation, afraid that when they left they would never come back. The doctor asked me about the crash and I said I shouldn’t have been driving while tired, it was my fault and my carelessness, and that was the end of it. I never heard anything further about the car and slipped away as soon as they discharged me. 

I called Diane from a motel and told her I needed her to come get me. The phone call was only a few minutes but hearing her voice made me feel like I could breathe again. The accident I implied to have been a rental car, and explained my injuries. She flew out to get me the next day. Back at home Diane was politely curious about what happened. With enough prodding and ill-advised wine, she got the full story out of me. We talked for hours. It helped. She’s the one who recommended I bring this experience to you, and I’m finally taking her advice. I told a few other friends but as I’ve explained, no one has ever believed me. They don’t look at me the same way after, either. 

I’ve only driven a car a few times since, and never by myself. I can’t stand to be in a vehicle for long periods and I tend not to go out on foggier days. I don’t like to be alone anymore. I found out later that the drive time from Indiana to Montana is around twenty five hours. Based on what the doctor told me, that’s too short to explain the condition I was in when they rescued me. I don’t understand what happened, but I don’t need to. I’m just glad to be alive and able to move past this, sort of. Thanks for reading this.

_ Some notes: Today Mr. Nagel lives with his partner in Chicago, and besides verifying the content of the statement as I typed it up, he declined a followup interview. The business card mentioned in the text was stored with the original statement! I can confirm through some quick googling the coffee stain is covering the logo for Solus Shipping PLC (or at least it was the logo until 2005- they updated it that year). The company is owned by Nathaniel Lukas, and an Arthur Lukas is listed on their company directory page as a “managing director”, but there’s no photo or contact info. I hesitate to conclusively tie these together because I think that would put us in hot water, legally speaking. I don’t want to slander this Arthur Lukas, although I’m not sure an actual crime is alleged here. Is reverse kidnapping a thing? _

_ I note this here because I went down a rabbit hole doing research on this statement and thought some of this stuff was too cool of a coincidence not to mention. It looks like the Lukas family has a lot of businesses, and some of them are really cool. They even funded a space station!! The organization that handled it is called Stratosphere Group, which is headed by the same Nathaniel Lukas. Stratosphere is based in London but it does a lot of philanthropic stuff for the international scientific community, including grant programs for universities and research institutions. Turns out we actually receive one of those grants- and it makes up literally seventy percent of our funding!! Wild! I wish our own government was interested in our projects and not just private, foreign entities ;) hahaha but I guess we’re lucky they consider this a serious academic endeavor at all. _

_ -Reagan _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No major content warnings on this one except car accidents. And some fun references to canon! And no one can tell I’ve been reading Steven King this week at ALL,,, Also I’m sorry about anachronisms but I can't drive manual so we'll pretend this car is from the future.


End file.
